


Five Degrees Left of the Sun

by asexualizing (Specialcookies)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, First Kiss, John Watson is a flirt, M/M, Sherlock Holmes and Bees
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-30 03:56:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6407812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Specialcookies/pseuds/asexualizing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is a bee activist. John Watson falls in love with bees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Degrees Left of the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> This had been such a fun thing to write. I rarely write sweet stuff and I rarely write uncomplicated stuff and this is both of those things, I had a good time writing it and most of it came out in a burst of love for the both of them. I hope it conveys how much of a ball I had during the process.

He’s handing out leaflets today, thinks it might have been worth his time if people wouldn’t have been in such a hurry to get away from him. But as it is, it’s a complete waste. He stands in the middle of the street with his black and yellow pages, aimlessly wondering between two blocks, and tries to get their attention, watches as they walk buy, can’t stop his brain from going: _Recently divorced, in a fight over custody, thinks he might get fired today, probably wouldn’t have noticed me even if I did go with the bee costume. Two children, three cats, her husband is cheating and she knows, low in-come, scared to leave him, can’t care about stupid bees with your life in such a mess. Gay, closeted, her girlfriend wants to come out, she knows it wouldn’t go well if they did, a florist, what a nice job, she even smiles at him, doesn’t stop, can’t when your mind is filled with hate. On his way to cover his debt, on his way to an unfulfilling job, on her way to pick up her three children from school, no husband, no wife, on his way to pick up his army pension…Does anybody on this earth even wants to be here?_

Sherlock sighs. He could have been helping with the hives today, spending his time with the bees instead of sulking in London, the chilly air creeping beneath his massive coat, the skies darkening like they’re saying to him: Stop. But no, he decided awareness was the goal today, and so took a deep breath and gathered the leaflets scattered about in his house, dressed nicely, and went out. Well, nothing is achieved so far. He might have had a better case if there were bees around to feed with honey. People seem to like these type of shows, like swallowing a sword that’s on fire, only way more impressive, in Sherlock’s opinion. Actually carrying some sort of importance, at the least.

Miserable people with their miserable lives who doesn’t even know that their world will be horribly empty if they continue like that, and doesn’t want to be told about it either, because why do they need another reason to panic? 

Well there’s no reason to panic. There’s only reason to _do better_. God, if only people would _listen_.

He’s about to turn around and go back to the other corner he’d been occupying when someone bumps into him. Maybe it’s his fault, since he hasn’t been looking, but either way, Sherlock very rarely loses his balance, and it seems as if the other person is just as stabilized as him, so the result is very uncomfortable to say the least. Not to mention the cane that’s hit his calf.

“Sorry,” the person says, takes a step back. “I didn’t mean to – “

Sherlock fixes the leaflets in his hands, searches to see if some had dropped. “It’s fine. I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Sorry,” the person says again.

When Sherlock raises his eyes, he recognizes him. It’s the army pension guy. Who had just been going the other way. Why had he come back?

“Hope I didn’t hurt you with my, you know…” Army Pensions Guy waves his cane, lips curling up into an ashamed smile.

“It’s fine,” Sherlock says again. He’d been recently discharged, the tan lines around his wrists still visible, which means… “Afghanistan or Iraq?” he blurts out without meaning to. Damn. He really didn’t want to get assaulted today.

The man gapes at him. “What?”

Sherlock could backtrack, but it’s not like the man didn’t hear him clear enough. He also looks more taken aback than angry. “Have you served in Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock repeats, slower this time, careful. He searches the man’s eyes for any signs of an oncoming attack, but finds none.

The man looks down. “Afghanistan. Am I that obvious?”

“To me.” He means it as an apology, but after the words leave his mouth, he realizes they don’t sound this way at all. Before he can _actually_ apologize, though, the man asks: “What do you mean?” and kicks the ground playfully.

Is he…is he interested in this encounter?

“I mean,” Sherlock takes a deep breath, “There’s your posture, definitely a soldier’s one, no mistaking it. There’s your cane, which implies a disability, but you’ve been standing here for the past couple of minutes and haven’t shown any signs of discomfort. Psychosomatic injuries are very common amongst veterans. And then there’s the fact you’re on your way to pick up your pension, it’s just around the corner, so. And finally, the tan lines around your wrists, which suggest you’ve just recently been in a very sunny place but haven’t exposed much skin. So, no, you’re that obvious, it’s just me.”

The man looks up at him, a smile playing at the corners of his eyes. Sherlock stares. It’s not as rude as other things he’d done.

“You’ve just met me. No, no, you’ve just _bumped into_ me.”

“And I knew all that before the, uh, incident. Well, most of it.” Sherlock shrugs.

The man’s smile creeps to his lips. “Ah.”

“I’ve…seen you walking the other way,” Sherlock explains when there’s no other thing to say.

The man just looks at him, with this tiny smile on his face, swaying on his hills. Sherlock did not expect that. “You do that a lot?” he asks eventually.

“What?”

“Read into people’s life?”

“It’s…a hobby.”

“Kind of rude.”

“So I’ve been told.”

The man licks his lips. Sherlock furrows his brows. “You don’t seem to mind,” he tells him, half a question half a statement.

Now it’s the man’s turn to shrug. “What’s the trick, then?”

Sherlock snorts. “There’s no trick.”

The man raises an eyebrow. “Really? You just…see everything?”

Sherlock’s short laugh is bitter. _Sees everything_ is not how most people would describe him. “That’s the gist of it.”

The man looks at his shoes, then straight into Sherlock’s eyes. “Care to elaborate?” Sherlock blinks. He blinks again. People don’t usually want him to elaborate. “You don’t have to. I’m just…interested.” He licks his lips again.

That’s a yes to his previous question, then.

Sherlock still doesn’t know how to respond. Something flickers in the man’s eyes, an expression that Sherlock doesn’t recognize, but it can’t possibly be a good sign. “I’m…no, I don’t mind, it’s just…people usually doesn’t want to know,” he hurries to explain.

“Doesn’t they? What do they want, then?”

“For me to piss off.”

The man laughs. It’s…throaty, real. “What a shame.”

That makes Sherlock smile. He feels it in his chest, climbing upwards through his throat and spreading along his face. “Doesn’t help much with my job.”

“What _is_ your job?” the man takes a step closer, tries to take a look at the leaflets in Sherlock’s hands. Sherlock gives him one. “Save the bees,” he reads, then looks up with furrowed brows. “Why bees?”

Sherlock bites at his tongue before he starts gushing about bees. If the man wasn’t scared off until now, that most certainly will do the trick. He needs to stay professional. He is finally gaining something out of this day.

“Well, we have this section here…” he opens the leaflet he’s holding out for the man and points at the relevant part, but the man keeps looking at him. “It explains it all pretty well. You can take one ho – “

“Yes, I can read,” the man cuts him off, rather impatiently but not entirely rude, more ‘This is not what I was asking’ and not ‘I don’t want to hear any of that’, with a bright look in his eyes. Then his voice softens, and he closes the leaflet on Sherlock’s fingers. “I asked you, though. Why bees?”

Sherlock is taken aback, once again. “People usually – “

“Don’t want to know. It’s a recurring theme here, I see. But I do. Why do you care so much? You’re obviously bored from standing in the street for so long, and judging by the amount of leaflets you still have in your hands, it was a futile day. Yet here you are. So why bees?”

He licks his lips, and Sherlock notices they are chapped and dry. It’s a never ending circle; the man licks his lips, the wind hits them while they’re wet, and he feels the need to do that again. Is it a tick? Or something more? Sherlock honestly can’t tell, what with being so surprised by everything this man does. It’s distracting. He can’t think.

“You ask a lot of questions,” he blurts out instead of answering.

“I can stop,” the man takes a step backwards, and this is definitely an instinct.

“No, no,” Sherlock hurries to say, compensates for the newly renewed distance by taking a step forward. “It’s – nice.” He fumbles with the leaflet the man refuses to take, nearly tearing the edges of it.

The man puts a hand on Sherlock’s, stops him. “Let me take you to lunch.” Sherlock snaps his eyes to him, but the man looks down. “I’ll – ask more questions, and you can answer them properly.” He kicks the ground, then, chuckles, but doesn’t pull his hand away.

“Lunch?” Sherlock asks slowly, like the word is unfamiliar.

The man finally meets his eyes. They are gleaming. “Yes. Would you like that?”

“I don’t even know your name.” It’s weak, pathetic, altogether too emotional.

The man takes the leaflet out of Sherlock’s hand, puts it his jacket pocket carefully, only to offer his hand then for a shake. “I’m John. John Watson.” His shoulders are square, his back straight as a ruler. He waits, and he waits, and he waits, and he doesn’t back off even when Sherlock blinks again before taking him up on his offer.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he grips John Watson’s hand with a force he doesn’t know the source of, and take a breath before saying – “Lunch would be lovely.”

John Watson’s lips quirk up into not-quite-a-smile, but warm nonetheless. “Good. Good.” His eyelids flutter, before he clears his throat and lets go of Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock lowers it back down, but it feels heavier than usual. He doesn’t know what to do now, so he pretends to rearrange his leaflets. Thank God he has something to mess around with. “Come on, then,” John Watson says.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Now?”

“You have anything better to do?”

“You do.”

“I won’t be long, you can come with me. If you want,” he adds when he sees Sherlock’s uncertainty.

“I, um, I do.” He blushes, slightly, not enough to be noticed. _I do?_

“Alright, then, come.” John Watson tilts his head, bright eyes, bright face, bright smile. Sherlock pockets the leaflets in his big coat, and off they go.

That’s not how he expected his day to pass by.

 

 

“Tell me,” John (“Please, call me just John, I don’t – we don’t need to do this”) says in between fits of laughter, while Sherlock himself is unable to stop his giggles, unable to stop looking at John as he trembles with joy. “Tell me,” he says again as he keeps being cut off by himself, takes a calming breath, “About me.”

They have been playing Deductions, and Sherlock has never been happier to expose his knowledge to anyone before. John had chosen the targets, and Sherlock supplied the entertainment. John has an excellent choice of people to deduce, he must say. Like he can’t see the details, but the general shape is clear enough for him to observe. He looks around and points at a particularly obnoxious diner, and says – “Please, I must hear about this one.”

And so an hour had passed, and the clientele changed around them, much to John’s delight as it brought more people to challenge Sherlock with (“Brilliant, you are. Just Brilliant.” And Sherlock had blushed harder than before, definitely noticeable this time, but John only kept smiling). Now that their food had gone cold, John finally brought up what Sherlock has been itching to talk about. Only, he wasn’t sure what to say, wasn’t sure where he was allowed to look. It was one thing to expose the secrets of strangers on the street, and another to do that to – Somebody who – What _is_ John playing at?

So, instead of looking through John, he looks down and says – “I already did.”

“That was nothing compared to what you can do, come on, I know you’ve got more.”

When he raises his eyes to meet John’s bellow his eyelashes, he can see that John is expectant, excited, even. This is not a conventional pass time in anyone’s eyes, and so John Watson must not be a conventional man.

He straightens up, holds his chin high, and narrows his eyes. It all comes flashing by.

John’s phone, which he had laid on the table beside him, is not the newest model of this product, but it is also far out of reach for an army pension guy. A gift, obviously, but from whom? It has an inscription on it, but Sherlock can’t read anything besides an XOXO, it’s too small and too far away. A lover, then? Seems unlikely it is his lover, since he is here, doing…this, with Sherlock, and had only returned home from Afghanistan. Do relationships sustain this kind of separation? They might, but then, again, John wouldn’t have been here with Sherlock. Maybe it is a past lover, but why would he keep it if it is? Past lovers tend to be a sour spot for people, and besides, he had only gotten it since returning from the war. No need for Smartphones in a warzone. Family comes to mind, but it’s a bit of a weird way to end a dedication for a family member. And John wouldn’t have been living on an army pension if he had a family member that could provide for him. Not a friend, either, friends give hugs, not kisses. He wants to store this information and move on, but a coherent conclusion does come to mind, and it is spilling out of him before he can stop himself –

“You’re alone.”

He freezes. John _had_ asked, but people don’t like hearing that about themselves. He should have moved on. At least he didn’t say the most dreaded word in the human race; _lonely._ He should have looked at the way John’s hand trembles when he’s nervous and say – No, that’s not right either, too dark, isn’t it? He should have gone about figuring out what John did in the army but –

But John… John chuckles. He says, “Quite right, you are.” He doesn’t stand up and walk away and he isn’t angry, not at all, he seems sad which isn’t better, but he isn’t leaving, he isn’t telling Sherlock to piss off.

He is asking – “How do you know?”

“Your phone,” Sherlock stammers.

John leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. “Of course, stupid me, anyone who has a phone _must_ be all alone in the world – “ he says with an air of sarcasm, but it’s John’s brand of sarcasm. John has a brand for everything, and Sherlock rather likes it. It’s gentle. It’s not mocking him.

“No, I mean, the inscription.”

John furrows his brows. “You can see it from there?”

“Some of it,” Sherlock admits. He doesn’t admit he couldn’t figure out anything else about John besides the obvious fact that he doesn’t have people to hang on to – that would be embarrassing, John already thinks so highly of him and here he is, blind – but he can admit to not seeing the whole picture.

John’s smile, which had been uplifting so far, like it’s contagious, turns rueful. His fingers come to slide over the Smartphone, tracing the inscription. “It says,” he begins, then reads in a very different voice from his own, “To Harry, from Clara. XOXO.” He is staring at it, the Smartphone, and he seems to be more distant, more inside his head. Sherlock didn’t want that. He wants the fun back. But John continues. “What can you tell me now?”

Sherlock swallows. He can tell it is a past lover, but not of John’s. A secondhand gift from somebody who wanted to get rid of all remaining reminders of their relationship. His relationship, judging by the name. So maybe it is a friend, maybe it is a family member, but the fact still remains – John wants nothing to do with him, beyond receiving his gift. He keeps his eyes fixed on the phone, on John’s fingers still tracing the inscription. Maybe it’s because he is an alcoholic, judging by the state of the charger entry, maybe it’s because he left his lover, judging by the fact he’s the one who wanted to get rid of the gift, and John, being alone, does not approve. He doesn’t, for the first time in his life, want to say any of it. The conclusion still remains echoing around them – John is alone in the world. He doesn’t deserve to be.

“I don’t want to play anymore,” he says, and his voice cracks.

John looks up, honestly puzzled. “Why?”

Sherlock, trembling hands and all, manages to reply with – “Because.”

John’s laugh is bitter. “I’ve ruined the mood, haven’t I?”

Sherlock’s eyes widen. No, it’s not that, it’s not that at all, and John must know that he is not pitying him. Sherlock knows pity, he hates it. “You haven’t ruined anything. I just want you to tell me. About you, that is. It’s not – It shouldn’t be the other way around.”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want you to know.” John is still puzzled by him. What is so puzzling about his respect to John’s privacy?

Sherlock inhales deeply. His whole body is still waiting to be shouted at. “Then tell me.”

“I thought I’d be the one to ask questions.” John looks back down, at his lap this time, where his left hand is twitching.

“You’re more interesting than bees.” Sherlock tries to sound casual, like he’s joking, like he isn’t drawn to John like the bees are to the sun from the moment he bumped into him and made him nearly fall.

“Am I?” John teases. Maybe it’s working.

Sherlock pretends to consider it, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. Then – “No. Probably not. They’re fascinating.” His smile is creeping back on, his lips trembling and stretching with him having no control of his reactions.

John bursts with laughter. It’s like before, now; he is happy. Sherlock feels warm.

“Can you talk about them, then? I think that was my original intention.”

“To get me gushing about bees?”

“Yes. Please tell me why I need to save the bees.” He doesn’t sound cynical, like people usually sound when they ask this exact question.

So Sherlock leans forwards, and begins.

He talks about the dry facts, first, because it’s essential that John would understand what they do for his world. What they keep possible, what they create. John listens intensely, like Sherlock is the most important person in the room, talking about the most important subject on earth. To him, it is. John doesn’t interrupt him when he starts to talk about the part corporations play in their distinction, and when he starts to babble endlessly about how smart and not dangerous at all they are. He laughs when Sherlock mentions the waggle dance with twinkling eyes, the precision of it, and how when pesticides impair a bee its ability to preform the dance is damaged, and the hive have less of a chance to find their good food, and the food chain won’t ever be the same if the bees won’t pollinate, and how less colourful, less vivid, less everything their world would be, even though he already said that, and he doesn’t do a damn thing but look at Sherlock and listen and laugh genuinely when Sherlock compares his own addiction to caffeine to the fact bees’ long term memory improves after consuming low dosages of it and –

“Did you know, for example, they can reverse their aging process by taking up a job usually done by younger bees?”

And –

“They’re incredibly versatile, their learning abilities are unmatched.”

“They are not a one-minded hive, they are different from each other, for example, some seek out danger more than others.”

“They’ve even helped improve out methods of catching serial killers.”

He is not afraid to let it all out anymore, because John, it seems, is having a ball. He is truly and utterly as fascinated as a person _should_ be by what Sherlock is saying. He is truly and utterly as fascinated as no one ever was by Sherlock himself. At this thought, Sherlock’s voice catches in his throat.

“What was that?” John asks.

“I said, they are…beautiful.”

“Beautiful,” John repeats, like this sums up everything he’s just learned.

“Yes.”

John looks around, at their table, then back at Sherlock. “We haven’t eaten.” He exclaims, like it’s anything of importance.

Sherlock looks at his full plate. “No.” He confirms, dumbly.

“The staff must thing we’re mad.”

Sherlock looks around them. He tilts his head towards one of the wait staff. “This one,” he says, and he doesn’t know if he can actually finish this line of conversation, but what do you know, here he goes – “Think we’re on a very successful date.”

John licks his lips. “Is he wrong?”

Sherlock blinks. It seems they are back to that now. He opens his mouth to answer, without fully grasping what’s about to come out of it, but then John’s phone buzzes, and they both snap their heads towards it. John looks at it like he might drown it on the first chance he gets. That would be a pity. How would Sherlock contact him then?

He holds it up, and Sherlock’s sure the magic’s about to end, but John only turns it off.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asks. He hates asking the obvious questions but like anything else that came out of his mouth today, it was not under his control.

“Ignoring it, thought it was obvious.”

“It was.”

“Then let’s not dwell on it.” He pockets his phone, and runs a hand through his hair. Sherlock doesn’t know how to answer his previous question now, the moment doesn’t feel right. John, luckily, is not waiting for an answer anymore. “’I’m sick of sitting here,” he starts, then stops like he’s not so sure of himself anymore. Sherlock waits. Then, John regains himself. “It’s not raining, do you want to go on a walk with me?”

Sherlock beams at him. Yes, he would. He would like that very much.

 

 

They end up at Regent’s park, walking side by side, close enough for their elbows to bump, but maybe that’s just because Sherlock’s lanky, and his elbow bumps into pretty much everything all the time. Their pace is slow, it’s more of a stroll than a walk, but Sherlock, usually always rushing from one place to another, rather enjoys it. He looks at John from the corner of his eye, and though he does lean on his cane, his limp is not as heavy as it was when he spotted him walking to pick up his pension. Which reminds him.

“You didn’t need to pay,” he says, voice low, looking at his feet.

“I know,” John replies simply.

The sun is about to set, and Regent’s park is illuminated in orange. It makes it seem all the more quiet and autumn-like. There is no one around them, it’s not the time for activities at parks, but Sherlock prefers it that way. It’s their private evening. It’s their private walk. They don’t need anyone budging in on that.

“I mean – “

“I know what you mean, and I don’t suppose a bee activist makes much more than what an army pension gives.”

“I have other sources of income.”

John takes a breath, like this subject is tiring for him, and he doesn’t want it brought up, ever, and Sherlock’s not sure if he’s about to ask for examples just to make him feel the same, or tell him to drop it. So he quickly looks around for an excuse to deter the conversation, and luckily, he finds the perfect thing.

“Look,” he points at the bee flying low, jumping from one flower to the other. John looks where Sherlock directs him, but sees nothing.

“What?” he asks.

Sherlock, in a bold move, grabs at his hand and walks them both carefully closer to the bee. “This,” he says.

When John finally spots the bee, he turns his face to Sherlock rather than focus his attention on it. The way John looks at him just then makes him feel dizzy. It’s not so rare to find bees searching for pollens in the middle of the city, he often has the chance to help them even when he’s not working at the hives, but this, this moment, of him standing there looking at a bee with awe and a person, in return, looking with awe at him, _is_ rare.

He’s already rummaging for the tube of sugar water in his pocket. “I have a trick to show you.”

“Another one?”

“I haven’t shown you any tricks,” he frowns. His deductions are not tricks. They are simple logic.

“I’m sorry, didn’t mean to offend your capabilities. Please go on.”

Sherlock never intended to stop. He finds the sugar water, and takes it out, squeezing some on his palm. He crouches down, and holds the palm out to the bee, which lands on it, and sticks its tongue out to lap at the sugar water.

Sherlock is so enthralled by it, every single time, that it takes him a moment to realize John had crouched down beside him, and is now holding his hand close to his palm, delighted.

“It helps them get the energy they need to go on with their search of pollen. This one, I assume, is quite far from home,” he murmurs like a father near a sleeping baby. John is now delighted by him, and not the bee. “Do you have any water? It might be thirsty.”

John nods. “Aha.”

“Poor some in the cap, and hold it steadily for it.”

John does as he’s told, and when the bee is finished with the sugar water, it flies and lands on the rim of John’s bottle cap. It drinks. Sherlock looks at John. He can see how hard he is concealing his excitement, as to not rock the cap and disturb the bee.

They are quiet. They lock eyes with each other, and none of them look away. The moment stretches on, and Sherlock is so content he doesn’t want it to ever end. He might be…he might be having feelings.

Finally, the bee is done with them, and flies away, its little body buzzing, its wings a blur. They both follow it with their gaze until it’s too far to see, then John whispers, “Beautiful,” with a voice like the air is caught in his lungs, and before Sherlock knows what’s going on, he’s kissing him. Dry, chaste, but not hesitant. He doesn’t need to be hesitant. Sherlock is as sure as he ever was that he wants John Watson to kiss him.

John has one hand on the back of his neck, the other steadying himself on the ground, and Sherlock ducks his head to return the kiss. He breathes out through his nose and John’s tightens his grip on his nape, before falling to his knees and taking Sherlock down with him, cradling Sherlock’s face as the kiss grows deeper.

Sherlock can hear his own heart beating. He creeps one hand to John’s waist, the other is fiddling with the hem of his coat in his lap, and just as he was sure he wants this, he’s not sure what to do next. It’s not a particularly illuminated area in his life, this kissing thing.

John, bless him, takes the lead. He breaks the kiss apart, which is a shame, but leans his forehead on Sherlock’s, which is less of a shame, and starts giggling, which is definitely welcomed by Sherlock. He is still holding Sherlock’s face between his palms. Sherlock can’t help but giggle with him, even though he has no idea what they’re giggling about.

“Oh God,” John breathes out, “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?”

“For… Doing that in the middle of the park. I – you were – “

“It’s – It’s fine. It’s all fine.” Sherlock’s heart is climbing up to his throat, and he needs to say it before he wouldn’t be able to talk at all. “I rather enjoyed it.”

John kisses him again, a brief press of their mouths. “Me too,” he says, sounding giddy, almost like a child, free from all shackles. “I do need to stand up, though. My leg is – “

“Right, of course.” Sherlock jumps up, and helps John to join him, picking up his cane for him. John keeps holding his hand long after it isn’t necessary anymore. They stand in the middle of the almost-completely dark road, awkwardly, and John entwines their fingers.

“I hope I’m not being presumptuous, but – “

“Yes.”

“ – I would very much like to take you home.” John kicks the ground, uncertain.

Sherlock’s lips curl up. “As luck has it, I live just around the corner.”

John throws his head back. “Oh, thank God, I thought I would have to – “ he stops, uncertain again.

“What?” Sherlock pushes, intrigued. What is John planning?

“Let’s just say I have a very small bed.”

Oh. _Oh._

John must have seen the realization written on his face, because he’s quick to add – “If that’s – If it’s not too fast for you, because we can – just – “

“It’s fine,” Sherlock cuts him short. He means it, so he repeats it, more ardent this time.

John squeezes his hand. “You can tell me all about your other sources of income.”

“And you can tell me all about – whatever you’d like. But that’s for tomorrow. Tonight…” he trails off.

John grins at him. “You’re a bad man, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock kisses him once more.

\-----------

Late at night, John is curled around him, his breathing leveled. The moonlight shines through Sherlock’s window, making John’s skin appear pale. Sherlock runs his thumb on the back of John’s hand where it lays on Sherlock’s stomach, the same hand that not so long ago made him writhe and gasp and moan out John’s name. This hand is firm and tentative, strong and delicate, a surgeon’s hand. He can ask John tomorrow. They can sit over coffee and talk endlessly. Sherlock would like to know, if John would like him to. He can take John on a trip to Sussex, they can spend the entire day together, Sherlock certainly wouldn’t mind that. He supposes John wouldn’t, either, but maybe he’s jumping the line there. He’ll have to wait and see.

He buries his nose in John’s hair, inhaling. _Gorgeous,_ John had said as he stripped Sherlock down, and Sherlock had thought – Well, he had thought, _Oh God_ , but he thinks _now_ that coincidences doesn’t exist. If they have found each other, lonely and unhappy, it was intentional. Five degrees left of the sun, somebody danced to show them the way, and all they had to do was follow through with their lives.

But that’s futile musings. For now, he needs to sleep.

Tomorrow they can go on.

**Author's Note:**

> I am also on [tumblr](http://www.asexualizing.tumblr.com)!


End file.
